


BAIT AND SWITCH

by Grendoc



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street - All Media Types, Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, As for the actual kinky shit, Blowjobs, Cock Slapping, Crotch Sniffing, Enemies to We're Fucking Now, Face Slapping, Hatesex, Internal Cumshot, Leglock, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with minimal Plot, Rimming, Rough Sex, Secret Affair, Seduction, Virginity, Will probably add to this later but it's a oneshot for now, repressed homosexuality, yeah this is gross LOL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26357848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grendoc/pseuds/Grendoc
Summary: One wrong move, one careless word, and he’ll flee forever without giving Freddy his well-earned satisfaction – that’s what keeps him speaking gently. That’s what he tells himself, at least.
Relationships: Freddy Krueger/Rorschach (Watchmen)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	BAIT AND SWITCH

Lighter in one hand, aerosol in the other, Rorschach looms over the bed of the Elm Street House and waits for Freddy Krueger to stop pretending he’s asleep.

“Hello,” is what he gives him – no ‘rise and shine’ or shake-awake – and in all fairness, he wouldn’t have given him those things even if they hadn’t spent the better portion of yesterday’s REM cycle beating each other to a pulp. “You have something of mine.”

“Burn me,” answers Freddy. “It’ll be _fun_.”

Rorschach does not humor this request.

His weaponry is not abandoned, but pocketed. He knows his enemies well – nothing infuriates Krueger like getting the cold shoulder. It is dangerous to ignore him. Rorschach ignores him. Rorschach roots through the chest at the foot of the bed, throwing miscellaneous unmentionables over his back. He is looking for his hat. Freddy has stolen his hat.

No one steals Rorschach’s hat. It is old, and ugly, and quite dirty, and he made it himself – with love.

The flicker of annoyance on Freddy’s face is cooled by the spread of an oily smile. His small body swims in his gaudy striped sheets, arms raising and folding on the pillow behind his head. No shame, no words, nothing to hide: just an unrelenting stare, upper lip curling over his teeth. Eventually, impatience wins out. “You aren’t gonna find it there.”

Fruit snacks, candy wrappers, spare change, condoms, pocket knives. No hat. Dirty magazines, unlabeled VCR tapes, needle packaging and half-fried spoons. No hat.

“No hat,” Rorschach informs him, arms folding over his chest. Glowering down. “Where.”

“What’ll you give me for it, cunt?”

“Eat me.”

Freddy sits upright. “You’d like it too much,” he purrs, and enjoys Rorschach’s breathy, unintelligible protest. The look in his eyes says he knows something Rorschach doesn’t. Rorschach can only hope it isn’t something about himself. “You didn’t come back for the hat,” blades twitching, sheets hardly covering his lap. “You liked it. The knives.” _Snkt-snkt_. “Me manhandling you. You liked it and came back for round two.”

The world turns on its axis, spins backwards and whirls. Rorschach is the only one who sees this – there is no other explanation for his body’s sudden urge to faint. He recoils, gripping the bedframe at its edge. His gaze is empty, black and white, fading fast from shock, to interest, to revilement. Nothing, truly, besides what the viewer chooses to impose.

Freddy chooses to impose ’45-year-old virgin’ and shifts, spreading his legs.

Debate, Rorschach decides, however tempting, would be pointless. Krueger has come to his own conclusions. Nothing that is said will change his mind. The glove-leather squeaks. Rorschach’s knuckles are white within them, fists shut tight and knees locked beneath him. He’s forgotten how to breathe. His face has gone still.

It picks back up again when Krueger yanks Rorschach’s hat out from under his ass and throws it into his chest. Rorschach catches it. Turns it over and over in his hands, at the brim – doesn’t put it on. “You lured me.”

“It’s your dream.”

“You gave me reason to dream it.”

Always somebody else’s fault. It must be. And of course – Freddy has manipulated the playing field in his favor. Funny thing about sleep: it’s unavoidable. Dreams are unavoidable. He’s unavoidable, too, if you’ve managed to keep his attention without dying in the first forty-five minutes. Rorschach never had a chance. Krueger hums, bats his eyes, feigns innocence. Stretches towards him, palms planted on the mattress. His shoulders roll back, skin loose on his muscles, curdled up pink and gummy; Rorschach wants it to disgust him, but the second skin allows him to watch without consequence the arms pushing against their sockets, the subtle strain of bicep, the gaunt throat and narrow curve of male breast – and it doesn’t. It doesn’t disgust him at all, no more than it has all the times before, when they have only ever been violent. Without violence, Freddy is soft around the edges, for a man. Fair and lank and rounded, baby fat lingering in his cheeks.

Haunting.

“Stupid,” murmuring, mostly to himself. “Stupid.” Walked right into this. He ogles. Unclenches, reclenches his fist. Feels the tension strangulate his spine and the shudder rolling through him in some effort to ease it. “What are you doing.”

“Inviting you into my bed.”

“Am already asleep.”

Head-tilt one way. Freddy repeats it in the other, mimicking – mocking? – him. “I took it to get your attention, princess.” Scoff, rolled eyes, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world; like something so debauching would occur to Rorschach naturally. “You know, the whole ‘intricate rituals’ deal? Keep coming back just to pound our sweaty flesh together? Figured I might as well bite the bullet and, you know, reach our inevitable conclusion before I kill you dead. Doing you a favor. Dying a virgin _suuuucks_.”

“Was not expecting you propose – arrangement,” Rorschach swallows. He would like to brush past the subject of sex. “Came to …” To nothing. Nothing he can remember. He is frozen. Unsure of options. He knows how to handle many things in life. He has never been expected to handle anything like this.

Thoughtful, or perhaps just shy, Rorschach tucks his hat over his mouth and the point of his nose, halfway hiding his face. He takes in a shaky breath. The inside of his hat smells like Freddy.

Rorschach pauses.

A second inhale, slower this time.

A hum.

Freddy sinks his teeth into his own bottom lip, but he can’t keep the smirk off his face. “You don’t hate it.”

“Unimportant. Have business to –”

Freddy rips the sheet off his lap. Rorschach is quiet again, locked in Krueger’s snake-eyes, in his predator stare. The bump of Rorschach’s nose becomes very friendly with the brim of his hat, sniffing its cap like a dog; said cap muffles a soft, startled sound at the sight of Freddy’s penis, half-swollen and rigid up between his legs.

“Jesus,” he whispers.

“Nope. Just me.”

Leaning there on one elbow, one knee propped up, one leg curled in front of him on the mattress, Freddy Krueger licks his teeth and wraps the ungloved hand around his cock. Moonlight filters in through bay window, muted by cobwebs, years of dirt. For a second, bathed in it, he almost looks human.

Then his eyes flash red, or yellow, or both – a piercing tone, like firelight – and Rorschach remembers that he is a demon; chooses not to care.

“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,” Freddy coaxes.

Rorschach makes a sound like surrender and wraps his hands around Freddy’s knees.

It is there, holding him, half-bent over him with only one knee on the edge of the bed, that he realizes he does not know what to do. Where is touch allowed? Where isn’t it? Should he care, when they have only ever been cruel to one another? Should he care, when people have only ever been forceful with him? He does care – it angers him; some vague knowledge informs him that the space between a man’s legs is the epicenter of his pleasure, though it has never done anything for Rorschach in the few times he’s stomached touching himself. Pleasure. Not just a weapon. Right.

… Right.

Small palm smooths over mottled skin and Rorschach suddenly loathes the glove for robbing him of its texture. The exposed musculature tenses at his touch. He is in awe of it – his hands slide down to ankles and part them, but he decides that it is no good – and pushes himself between Freddy’s thighs, shoulders first, then hips. Straddling.

“Are you – inebriated?”

“Nah.”

“… It’s okay?”

“… Yeah,” Freddy promises, mostly because he can tell that Rorschach’s trying not to cry.

The vigilante accepts it; curls over Freddy’s belly, skipping his cock entirely in favor of holding his hips. He nestles against Freddy’s side, flattening one hand over his stomach, then up again, tracing the rungs of his ribs with his fingertips.

It becomes apparent to Freddy that Rorschach is exploring him. Freddy isn’t about to tell him to stop.

“Why is it okay?”

(His body language is like a frightened animal. The notion that one wrong move, one careless word, and he’ll flee forever without giving Freddy his well-earned satisfaction – that’s what keeps him speaking gently. That’s what he tells himself, at least.)

There is no move to touch Rorschach in return. Fred’s been pinballing around in his brain long enough to know that’s not a good idea. Besides – Rorschach is touching Freddy, so Freddy can’t really complain. His body reacts without intention, hips pushing urgently towards the warm, rough leather palm. Rorschach grazes the head of his cock with the flat of his fist and Freddy’s toes curl against the balls of his feet so hard they crack. He has not been taken by a tender hand in a very, very long time – Krueger isn’t sure whether he wants to curl around Rorschach like a python or bolt for the fucking door.

“Because you’re – you’re –”

He does not get a chance to finish. His cock pulses to life, suddenly in Rorschach’s fist, and he can’t stifle a groan. “You like me,” postures Rorschach, squeezing his fist when Freddy nods.

“Yeah.” Broken. “Do you - like me?”

Rorschach doesn’t know how to answer.

Mostly, he doesn’t know what Freddy is asking. Of course he likes him – yes? He likes him because he is able to touch him and only feel slightly sickened. He likes him because he came here with the tools to torch him ‘alive’ and did not use them. He likes him because he must: because all the evidence points to it.

“Yes,” he mutters, and pushes his other hand up under the back of Freddy’s knee.

The leg is rested around Rorschach’s shoulders, curled around the back of his neck when he takes to his knees between Fred’s legs again. Back to the hips, gripping and dragging them, examining him closely, so close the heat of his breath flits through his mask, ghosts Freddy’s cock, makes it jump against his thigh just before Rorschach nudges his nose into the crease between leg and groin.

“You do like me,” Freddy marvels, running his hands over the back of the mask. “Sick little fucker, I knew you did.”

“Shut up,” says Rorschach, and presses his face into Freddy’s perineum, breathing him in.

A massive tremor passes through Krueger’s body. His eyes roll up towards the ceiling, gripping the sheets, claws and nails tearing through the fabric, body coiling with anticipation. “Make me.” Fluttering eyelids that then close completely, both legs around Rorschach’s neck, now, ankles crossed between his shoulderblades. He can feel his dick leaking onto his stomach: a thin, silvery strand pulls between his navel and the glistening slit. He’d wanted Rorschach’s attention. He got it. He is incredibly pleased with himself. “Rough me up. Rough me up back. Fair and square, right?”

“Not roughing you.”

Rorschach was not built for gentle words, but there they are, filling the air between them like a breeze. It is difficult to be cruel as he slides down the crease of Freddy’s buttocks, prying them apart with his thumbs for better inspection.

The mask stays on when he kisses the hole.

One peck, at first, then another. The third is low and slow and if he weren’t hidden behind two layers of latex it’d be deep, too – tongue pushing hard against the cloth in an honest try at penetration. Rorschach stops worrying about practicality somewhere between suffocating his virtue under a full faceful of ass and allowing Freddy’s cock to lay across the bridge of his nose, heavy with blood, working his jaw like he’s eating him: licking until his spit clings in strings between the latex and the ring of muscle to which he’s so worshipfully attached himself. “Beautiful,” smothered words. Long, slow, thorough strokes to Freddy’s cock, seemingly familiar with the motion. “Very beautiful.”

_Ssssuck-pop._

_“Fuuhck.”_

Grit teeth, sweat beading from his few unruined pores. Freddy’s eyes have reopened, but with how thickly lidded they are it’s near impossible to tell. Blood fills his mouth as his teeth score along the inside of his cheek. “I know,” under his breath, followed by him digging his fingers into his own mouth: pursed lips, whorish pull. He reaches around the underside of Rorschach’s jaw, finds the place where Rorschach’s tongue and his body meet, and hisses as he prods himself. He crooks it, and his legs tremble.

Rorschach has leant back to watch.

The act of sodomy is as devastating to witness as it is to perform – he shivers at the utter indecency, pupils blown wide behind his face. But he is just as guilty. He was guilty first. There is no insult he could toss that would not be better aimed at himself. He is helpless, left without his words or a lick of dry wit to stand on; helpless but to ruck his mask up over his mouth and nose and finally, finally taste him, tongue flickering the place where Freddy stretches all around and in between his fingertips. Tongue hot, soft, lathing. Rorschach has been seduced by the devil, with no one to blame but the devil himself.

It is not fifteen seconds before Rorschach slaps Freddy’s hands away, lifts his hips off the bed, and opens his real, raw mouth on his skin.

 _“Ooh-fuck,”_ stunned senseless at the very first kiss. Rorschach is dominant in a gentle way and Freddy is obsessed. Handsome, stubbly jaw, pink flicker of lips, glint of teeth and oh, oh, _oh_ – his head hits the pillow, moaning, a high sound that may have embarrassed him had he had the brainpower to know that he made it. His feet press down on Rorschach’s shoulders. Freddy covers his face with the glove. “Please.” Knives. “Please, ohgod, ohmygod.” Glimmering knives. “Fuckingshit.” Twitching knives. “I’ll do anything.” Knives screeching together, metal on metal. “ _Please_.” Mouth open. Series of sharp, ragged gasps, Rorschach watching him twist and wriggle as he sinks a pinky into him, removes it, and replaces it with his tongue.

A stubborn fist squeezes the base of his cock. He twists his wrist, weighs it in his hand, mostly to shut him up – make him cry out? – both. The pleading warms him to intimacy. Rorschach lifts his head and trails a smattering of kisses up the underside of Freddy’s dick. Back down, along the side. Pushes his nose between his balls and sniffs until he’s dizzy – thick and heady and sweet like blood, ash, bone.

He wants Freddy to cum.

He is a whore, just like his mother. He wants Freddy to cum all over his little whore fucking face.

One graceless attempt to return to Freddy’s ass passes, conclusion: Rorschach fails miserably at avoiding his cock. A helpless whimper into Krueger’s thigh, a shake of the head, and then Rorschach’s small, fine lips sinking down the length of Freddy’s dick in one determined push.

_Mgghk._

To the base. In his throat. His thumb finds Freddy’s asshole and swirls over it, drooling like a rabid dog. The free hand finds Freddy’s hands – guides them to the top of his head.

Freddy anchors him.

This is where anything tender between them ends.

There is no control in Freddy’s hips. They slam upwards into Rorschach’s face and come crashing to the bed with as much tact, rutting into him again and again and again. His asshole twitches, winks around the threat of Rorschach’s thumb. He snarls when he forces Rorschach’s head down onto his dick, jerking him by a fistful of fabric, very nearly ripping the mask right off his skull. Coiled like a spring. Ready to pop. Heaviness to his balls, smacking Rorschach’s chin.

“You fucking like that shit?” Krueger yanks his newest toy up off his dick just long enough to stare. Slobber hangs from Rorschach’s gaping mouth, a trail of it running from his nose and down his upper lip. He isn’t fighting. He’s barely moving – heaving with every breath, staving off retches. “Swallow it. Swallow it, you fucking _WHORE._ ”

Right back down, two hands forcefully holding him in place. Rorschach’s gag reflex jumps around Freddy’s cock. Tears spill down his battered face. He is entirely silent. Coughs around the girth, but it’s worthless – spit and precum drool from his nose, the pressure forcing the mess up into his sinuses, making his face numb, his nostrils sting, his eyes cross, unseen. It burns. His jaw aches already. He is humiliated. Letting Freddy use his mouth, letting himself be reduced to nothing by an _enemy_ – he cannot blame Freddy, so he will blame the blood of the harlot in his veins. He will blame the church for forcibly stifling his temptations to the point where intrigue made it so that he could not resist what was forbidden. He will blame anyone, anything, except for the fact that he enjoys having nothing to think about except enduring the bruising force of another man fucking him dumb.

He cums without being touched at all, squeezing his face up and hugging Freddy in the grip of his hollowed cheeks.

The vibrations of his mindless babbling roll up Krueger’s guts and almost, _almost_ tip him over – not quite. Not done with him yet. Rorschach’s a good hole. Freddy wants to fucking keep him. Wants to give him something to hate himself for when he touches himself to it later _– yeah_. He cradles Rorschach’s cheek in the gloved hand, whisks the blades over his temple, like a reminder. Yanks him up off his dick again and holds him in place so he can slap his face with it – pushing the head just past his lips and teeth, scraping it along his tongue and inner cheeks, squashing himself against the rigid roof of his mouth. _Slap, slap, kiss._ “Taste it.” _Ha, ha._ “Taste it, you **bitch.** ”

Big shit to talk, the way he’s trembling.

When he shoves his way back inside of Rorschach, Rorschach is limp. Whether it’s relaxation or dissociation doesn’t particularly occur to Freddy – his eyes stream, and his teeth chatter; a final, piteous moan, hanging his head and pulsing once, twice, before spilling his orgasm right down Rorschach’s throat. The aftershocks wrack his shoulders, his spine, all along the rest of his tiny frame, till he’s shaking right down to the tips of his little clawed toes.

Rorschach slides off slowly, sweeps his tongue over the glans, and coughs into his open palm. He has use for it – whatever scrap of dignity still withstanding dictates that it’s only fair that if Freddy wants to make a mess, he ought to have to lie in it. His dripping fingers slide through the crease of Freddy’s ass a final time, never speaking, merely glowering down as he pushes the filth into him with his middle finger, down to the knuckle, and twists.

Freddy mewls when he enters, and again when he leaves him open, empty, boneless and overworked in the sheets.

“Appointment tomorrow night,” is his final verdict, before he gathers his hat and forces himself to wake.


End file.
